


Gavottes and Golden Girls

by TurnipTitaness



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Flashbacks, Fluff, Other, This Is STUPID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26685862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurnipTitaness/pseuds/TurnipTitaness
Summary: Crowley has decided it's high time to introduce Aziraphale to two things: Their all-time favorite TV show, and cheap pastries that they most certainly DID NOT go to great lengths to invent.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Gavottes and Golden Girls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [broken_fannibal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/broken_fannibal/gifts).



> I am thoroughly indebted to Gavottes for existing on my supermarket shelves, and to broken_fannibal for giving me the idea for this ridiculous piece of utter nonsense.
> 
> I've been writing it in little snatches during Zoom lectures with a professor who just might be the most obnoxious one I've ever had, so I am thoroughly indebted to this fic itself for keeping either me or my prof alive over the past couple of weeks.

**September, 2020**

“Come on-n-n, Angel,” Crowley whined, craning their neck over the back of the sofa and glaring at the doorway to the hall. “I’m about to start without you.”

The apocalypse had been averted sixteen months ago, and one angel and one demon had been living quietly together in the South Downs for seven of them. 

Crowley had decided that, although Aziraphale had confessed to being less fond of television than of books or live theatre, it was high time he watched _The Golden Girls_. Some parts of culture are simply too important to be missed. So they had dragged out Crowley’s well-worn boxed set and planned an epic binge. But at this rate, the demon reflected, it might be another six thousand years before they could actually get started.

“What are you doing in there?”

“I won’t be a moment.” Aziraphale’s voice floated out of the kitchen. “I’m just gathering some snacks.”

“Crowley grinned. “You’re the only snack I want,” they shouted.

“Pf-f-f, good lord, my dear!” Aziraphale tried his best to sound scornful, but Crowley heard a stifled giggle. Their grin grew wider, only to be replaced hastily with a frown as they heard the angel’s footsteps approaching. 

“Finally," they grumbled as Aziraphale bustled in. “I could have brought up another Antichrist in the time that took you.”

The angel set an attractively arranged board of cheese and fruit carefully down on the coffee table and raised an eyebrow at Crowley. “You didn’t even bring up the first one,” he reminded them. 

Crowley glared glarefully at him. “That’s beside the point.”

Aziraphale simply chuckled and sat down next to the demon, looking at his handiwork with a pleased wiggle. “I have some pastry dough in the refrigerator,” he said. “So I thought we might take some time part way through your box to bake something for the second half.”

Crowley saw their chance, and they took it.

“Or we could just have these,” they said casually, pulling a long, thin box out of who knows where and tossing it over to the angel.

Aziraphale caught it and turned it over, scanning the label curiously. His eyes grew rounder than ever as he read aloud. “Gavottes,” he murmured. “Biscuterie fine depuis 1920. Mini Crepe Dentelle Fourree.” 

He looked up at Crowley, an awed expression on his face. “Gavottes,” he repeated. “Miniature crepes.” His eyes began to sparkle, and Crowley was rewarded with a beaming smile. “Oh my dear, these are perfect! However did you manage this?”

The corners of Crowley’s lips shot up, and they coughed, trying hard to turn their smile into a grimace. “Ah, ‘s nothing, Angel. Just happened to pop into a shop and saw them. Thought you might like them, is all. ‘S not like I had to start a bakery, or anything like that.”

**May, 1920**

Crowley was deeply out of sorts. Here they were in some little town in Brittany, far from both home and their comfort zone. And all for what? For some pastry cook to totally ignore them, that’s what.

This really wouldn’t do. Their entire plan hinged on distraction. They’d tried everything they could think of: Dialed up the old charm to about a thousand, asked about the local gossip, even commented on the scenery. But no. The woman remained utterly focused, deftly flipping her crepes when they reached a perfect state of golden tenderness. 

Finally, Crowley had asked point blank and hoped for the worst: Had Madame ever considered opening her own pastry shop? They did not add, “So that I can declare undying love to one specific angel without him knowing.” For one thing, they didn’t think their French was up for it.

“Une patisserie?” Mme. Cornic said speculatively, swirling her wooden spreader around the hot griddle. 

“ _Ton_ patisserie,” Crowley said, throwing all their skills of temptation into the words. “Pensez-vous d’elle…” In the back of their mind, Crowley was aware that their grammar was wobbling dangerously. They reached automatically for the finished crepe she had so unnecessarily prepared for them, and gave her what they hoped was a dazzling smile. 

“Patisserie Cornic.” The woman tilted her head to one side, trying out the effect of the name. “Patisserie Marie-Catherine?” She slid her wooden flipper quickly under the crepe and turned it in a single, expert motion.

“Oui… oui, but… mais…” Crowley’s voice hissed a little with the strain of it all. Would she never take her eyes off her work? She ought to get some sort of bloody medal, Crowley thought bitterly. They soldiered on, valiantly ignoring the lemon juice that trickled down their sleeve. 

“Mais appelez-vous… No, hang on, that’s not it… Appelez-elle? La patisserie, tu connais.”

“I should perhaps mention that I speak English, monsieur.”

Crowley was too relieved to be annoyed that she’d let them struggle so long. “Oh, thank someone for that,” they sighed. “Bit rusty in French. Never can quite get the hang of Latin-based languages, ‘f I’m honest. Used to drive Nero mad. Said my syntax made him want to burn the city to the ground. Bit excessive, I thought. But that’s the Roman temperament for you.”

They started to laugh, but choked on the sound when they realized what they’d said. “Ngk… anyway…”

Crowley glanced up at Mme. Cornic, only to find her staring at them, a wrinkle of confusion between her brows. She placed her hands on her hips. “Pardon, m’sieur?”

Behind their dark glasses, Crowley’s eyes flickered desperately. “No, no, didn’t mean that. Just meant… Well, ha, ‘s figure of speech, innit?”

Mme. Cornic’s frown deepened, and she opened her mouth, clearly drying to formulate a question, such as “What does this figure of speech mean?” or possibly “What asylum did you escape from, m’sieur?”

Crowley considered giving the whole thing up as a bad job and disappearing with a quick click of their fingers. Surely there had to be some easier way to get what they wanted.

A faint crackling sound rose from the griddle, and Mme. Cornic turned back to it with a cry. The crepe, left for just a few moments too long, had turned a warm, rich brown.   
“Ah, non!” She let out a torrent of words, some of which Crowley suspected were not quite polite. 

They felt a surge of triumph. Their plan was working! Now if only they could bring about the final piece, everything would be perfect. 

“Roll it up, quick,” they shouted. 

Without thinking, Mme. Cornic followed their instructions. Holding it carefully, she watched as the crepe cooled into a tight, crisp cylinder. 

“Right,” Crowley breathed. “Just you pop that into your mouth. Might not be half bad. You could end up with a brand new idea to start your bakery with. Really set you apart from the rest of the crowd.”

Mme. Cornic rolled the crepe back and forth in her fingers skeptically, but then did as Crowley had suggested. A look of surprise grew on her face as she crunched down on the crisp wafer. 

“Mais c’est bon,” she said, wonder suffusing every syllable. 

“Finally.” Crowley wiped their brow, then shook their head as Mme. Cornic offered them the rest of the little biscuit. “No, no, thanks and all that, perfectly happy with this one here.” They flapped their still untouched crepe at her, causing sugar to fly in all directions. “Right, must dash, nice talking to you, you’re a genius, madame.”

Crowley nearly sprinted down the lane, then skidded to a halt and re-traced their path. 

“Nearly forgot the most important bit. Ought to call it Gavottes. Your bakery, I mean. Got to admit, it has a ring to it, eh?”

And with a wink and a grin, they disappeared. 

**September, 2020**

Crowley blinked and shook their head, trying to rid themself of uncomfortable memories. Across the sofa, Aziraphale stared at them, a look of knowing fondness on his face. He shook his head.

“You’ve never ‘just happened to pop into a shop’ in your life, my dear.”

Crowley shrugged. “First time for everything. Now are we watching this show, or not?”

Aziraphale glanced uncertainly at the television. “Well, if you really think I’ll enjoy it.”

“Ah, you’ll love it, Angel. You’re practically a Golden Girl yourself. Oh, what now?” Crowley groaned, as Aziraphale whipped around to face them, his brows arching in astonishment.

“Your favorite show, and it reminds you of me?” the angel said, his face flooding with tenderness. “Oh, Crowley…”

Crowley hadn’t felt this exposed since 1967. They scrabbled desperately down the side of the sofa cushion, trying to locate the remote. “Shut up,” they snapped, giving up and clicking their fingers at the screen. "Wait until you've watched it before y'go thinking it's a compliment."

Aziraphale smiled gently at them, a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. “It’s like I’ve always said,” he murmured. “You really are quite a--”

“Yes, yes, all right then,” Crowley cut in irritably. “I’m trying to watch the show.”

As the opening song began to play, Aziraphale snuggled closer to his demon and reached for a packet of Gavottes.


End file.
